The Kilternan Legacy

by Anne McCaffrey

  “I know what you’re thinking, Rene,” said Mary with a sad smile. “You don’t understand Ireland.”

  “You’re certainly right there. So I’ll be bluntly American. George Boardman wants to buy one of those two cottages. He plans to enlarge it and live there. I assume it’s for proximity to you and Molly. Do I refuse him for the sake of Ireland? Or do I remind you that you have a right to some happiness, and that I’m quite willing to sell him Mrs. Slaney’s place and I won’t ever ask to know which walls he knocked out? And, since I’m blowing off steam, do you know what Aunt Irene had against Shay Kerrigan?”

  She did. I saw it in her eyes.

  “You might just as well tell me, because I’ll find out.” Please, God, just once let my bluff work! “In the meantime, it’s just possible that there’s another stupid impasse. Oh, blast! I don’t mean that you and Ann are being stupid …”

  “I do know what you mean,” and there was a terrible undertone of sadness in her voice.

  “This is my queendom now. I’ve the ordering of it in some respects. Oh, I know Shay’s been buttering me up something shameful, all to get access up that lane. He won’t get it if I feel my aunt’s reasons for denying it were valid. If she had good cause, then I’ll just forget about him entirely. But he’s been damned sweet and helpful these last few days …”

  Mary looked me squarely in the eyes. “Do you mean you would turf him out?”

  “I do.” I wasn’t really that sure, but…

  “I shouldn’t be saying it, but you have the right to know. He’s the father of Sally Hanahoe’s baby.”

  That was not what I expected to hear. I know that she had to repeat it because I stared at her with such blank astonishment.

  “Who says so?”

  “Sally!”

  Well, it’s true that Sally ought to know the father of her baby.

  “But Shay doesn’t know Sally!” Of that I was positive.

  “Did you ask him?” Mary was aghast.

  “No, but he doesn’t. Not unless he goes about getting girls whose names he doesn’t know pregnant. You see, I’ve mentioned Sally to him, and he didn’t recognize the name.”

  “Are you sure?“asked Mary with bitter cynicism.

  I thought back. And I was certain. I would have distinctly heard an evasion or studied ignorance.

  “I’m sure. I’m as sure as I’m sitting here pulling weeds with you that Shamus Kerrigan doesn’t know Sally Hanahoe.”

  “But she described him! Big blue car, sandy hair, smooth talker, beautiful dresser.”

  That could describe quite a lot of other men I’d seen, even in the brief time I’ve been in Ireland, and I told Mary so. A look of disbelief and distrust passed over her face.

  “No, Mary, I’m not saying it because I believe what Shay Kerrigan says. I believe what I haven’t heard him say. But now I know what he’s supposed to have done—I’m sorry, Mary, the irresponsible-lecher role doesn’t suit Shay Kerrigan. Well, maybe I can find out. But that’s why Ann Purdee won’t let Shay in her house? She’s afraid Sally will see him?”

  Mary nodded.

  The rest of Sally’s pathetic story, which I got from Mary, only reinforced my belief in Shamus’s innocence.

  Sally’s Shay K. had given her a lift one miserable rainy evening; he’d asked to meet her the following Friday at the Hotel Wicklow. Mary told me the place was rather well known for “casual encounters” (a fact which strengthened my belief, because Shay Kerrigan would not operate in such a fashion), and he’d wined and dined her frequently, leading up to a seduction one night when he’d got her very drunk. She’d gone with him until she discovered her pregnancy, three months later. She’d been living in a bedsitter in Rathmines. She’d no idea where he lived; he’d always contacted her at her office. The man hadn’t talked about his origins or background, never mentioned family (considering how often Shay spoke of his nieces and nephews, another point in his favor). He had mentioned deals in land, and that he owned a garage.

  When Sally had confessed her state to him, he’d flatly told her that marriage was out of the question, because he was married. He’d railed at her for being too stupid to be on the Pill. She’d threatened him with the Gardai, and he’d only laughed, taunting her with the fact that he was already married and she’d have to prove it was his baby. What good would that do her? Then he’d left her.

  She’d tried to find him, revisiting the places where they’d gone, pubs they’d frequented, but she was unsuccessful. Abortion was repugnant to Sally, morally and religiously, and impossible financially. She took a cheaper bedsitter, a closet, Mary described it, and saved every penny she could to support herself when she was no longer able to work.

  “What about her family?” I asked Mary, who snorted with scorn.

  “Down-country farmers, like mine. Her father would have beaten her to death for the shame she’d brought his name.” Mary scowled bleakly. “So Sally never told them.”

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  Mary shook her head. “By the galore, but no help. You don’t know how it is in Ireland.”

  “So … she had her baby?”

  “Yes. First she went to a house for unwed mothers, but she said it was so awful with all that repentance that she felt twice as bad as ever before. She wasn’t a criminal, after all,” and the look on Mary’s face made it obvious that Sally had given her a lot more detail than I was getting. “She left in her seventh month and got a summer job minding a baby for a woman having her eighth. She had a bed in the room with the four younger children, she ate as well as anyone in the family, and the woman was very kind. She put Sally in touch with the Deserted Wives and Unmarried Mothers’ Association. That’s how she met Ann, and they got on like sisters.” Mary smiled at that.

  Molly had finished her chore of weeding on the other side of the garden, and came over to sit inside the crook of her mother’s arm.

  “And you? How did you meet Aunt Irene?” I nodded toward Molly in case Mary didn’t feel like answering at that moment.

  “Oh, I came through a regular channel. This house had fallen vacant and Irene had advertised it. ‘Low rent’”—Mary laughed—“which I had to have, ‘in exchange for services.’ I phoned to inquire what services”—again the cynicism in Mary’s voice—“and found out that Irene wanted someone with bookkeeping experience. Did you know that your aunt made a lot of money on pools and horses?”

  “No! How marvelous of her! A racetrack tout!”

  “Well, hardly.” Mary’s disclaimer was amused. “No great amounts at any time, but the odd tenner here and there. What I didn’t know until later was that she’d had answers by the galore but she was looking for the right tenants, someone like Molly and me.” She broke off. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “I always like a cup of coffee.”

  The rooms inside their very neat little cottage were larger and more cheerful than you’d think from the outside, and I was sure Kieron had been busy in Mary’s kitchen too.

  Pretty though the house was, the evening beckoned us out again to the small front garden. We sat on the grass and compared our respective countries—in superficial terms. I’d guessed that Mary’s time for confidences was over. Molly was yawning fit to pop her jaw when we realized with astonishment that it was half past ten, with the sky still bright.

  “I wonder where my children are,” I said as we rose.

  “Enjoying themselves, I’m sure. Not to worry, Rene.”

  For once, I didn’t. I went home and got ready for bed. Bright skies made it difficult to think of sleeping, so I read for a while until I heard a car pulling up and the cheerful courtesies of the twins, the responses of their friends.

  They’d had a ball, Snow assured me, and a grinning Simon began to relate the details, but I soon sent them off to bed. Such energy at the end of a long, hectic day is so enervating!

  Chapter 16

  DESPITE A RELUCTANCE generated by ignorance of the protocol and a malaise in
any funereal circumstances, I attended Mrs. Slaney’s requiem Mass arid burial. Fortunately, the Irish are very sensible about such matters, and the ceremonies were conducted without unseemly dispatch or excessive emotion.

  Tom Slaney was there, accompanied by a burly plainclothesman. The Ladies Brandel arrived and took their places beside me along with Shay Kerrigan, who had chauffeured them. Ann and Mary came with Kieron Thornton, since Snow and Simon had volunteered to keep all the children. Ann was so bundled up in a huge coat and head scarf that I barely recognized her, which I suppose was what she’d intended. There was also a handful of bent head scarves, and two men sitting at the back of the church, obviously not there for the proceedings.

  Slaney kept, or was kept, well away from me, and disappeared with his escort as soon as the brief graveside service was completed. Ann was very nervous too, and couldn’t wait to get home. But I didn’t really want to be alone, so I was glad when Shay asked me to deliver the Ladies back to their cottage. He’d a business deal that was requiring a good bit of time right now, he explained. I wondered how truthful he was, because Ann had been giving him very cold glances.

  The Ladies were delighted to accept my invitation and were effusive in their thanks to Shay, as if to offset Ann’s manner. So we all drove back to my house. The Ladies couldn’t have been more flattering in their comments over what we had already done, and they had the most charming way of making suggestions: They’d remind each other of the decor in houses of the same period. Their knowledge of antique and period furniture was far more secure and exhaustive than mine; they’d grown up with the real items firmly ensconced in appropriate settings for several generations.

  Snow appeared with Ann’s flock, and much was made of the children. Meggie responded shyly, without much coaxing, as if she’d finally found someone her own size.

  I’d noticed that Ann had begun to relax the moment that Shay had left. I believed I could now understand her distaste for his company, but if she’d known him so well, how could she believe that Shay Kerrigan— no matter what Sally had said— would do such a shabby thing? He was not the sort of moral coward to take refuge in the obvious lie about being married. And I felt that if he had got a girl pregnant, he’d at least be gentlemanly enough to see her through the ordeal. I resolved to achieve a confrontation between Sally and Shamus at the earliest possible moment.

  Of course, Rene’s Law instantly came into effect. I should have counted on that, but I forgot to.

  The Ladies Brandel looked fatigued, and I suggested that perhaps I’d better drive them home, as it had been a trying morning. I took a quick look into the fridge and decided I could use some more food from Sally’s supermarket and start my plan.

  I delivered Lady Mary and Lady Maud to their cottage, promising faithfully that we’d all drop by for tea in the very near future. They overthanked me and again praised what I’d accomplished in the house.

  “Much as we loved Irene, she’d a better eye for a horse than a house,“was Lady Mary’s succinct remark.

  They were such old dears, and I sensed that they had attended the funeral as much to support me as to add to Mrs. Slaney’s few mourners.

  I had to cash a large check, but the bank manager, no doubt thinking with black-ink visions of my incredible balance, was charm itself. But he’d been equally obliging before the trust-fund money appeared in my account, and I can’t honestly resent such charm when it makes life so pleasant.

  Sally was on one of the registers, so I patiently waited on her line to speak with her and discover her work schedule. I had planned to invite Shay Kerrigan for dinner on a Thursday, when she worked late. I would discover that I’d forgot an important ingredient that could be got only at her store, and so confront him with Sally. But it was a bit awkward, I decided. I ought to be able to contrive something better. Maybe if I asked Snow … except that I couldn’t very well do that without disclosing the whole game. Snow knew all about illegitimate children and affairs and that sort of thing—she could hardly remain ignorant in this day and in the society in which she had moved—but my scruples prevented me from enlisting the aid of a fourteen-year-old girl.

  Well, something would occur.

  I got as far as calling Shay to issue the dinner invitation. His voice answered the phone, but before I could plunge into my carefully rehearsed invitation, his voice continued in an inexorable way to inform any listener that he was away on business and if the caller would leave a message after the beep, he would attend to the matter on his return.

  I let the silly recording repeat itself because I was so astonished. He hadn’t said anything to me about going away. I tried not to be hurt. After all, he had a legitimate grievance with me for holding up the development of his property.

  I got busy in the kitchen, putting away groceries and sternly directing my mind away from Shamus Kerrigan. (Charming rogue? No, Shay Kerrigan wasn’t a rogue!)

  Simon came in with Jimmy, both predicting imminent death due to starvation. I made lunch and then realized that it was nearly two and I would have to rush to make the auction at Buckley’s at half past.

  “Auctions are fun,” Jimmy told me. “Mom loves to go even if she’s not in a buying mood.”

  “Are they worth it, though?”

  “Sure, if you know what you want and don’t pay more than it’s worth,” he replied, shrugging. He gave me a mischievous grin. “Sometimes Mom says people go out of their minds bidding against each other when they wouldn’t buy the thing brand-new at a shop for the price they end up paying.”

  The items for auction were all numbered, and after a look in the back room, where the auction had started with depraved lawn mowers, disabled washing machines, kitchen chairs, and the like, I toured the main floor and the balcony. One delightful wardrobey thing, called a compactum, fascinated me. It would solve Snow’s closetless-room problem. If it took my fancy, it would probably take others’ as well, but still…

  The mob from the back room surged in, led by a man in a violent-purple shirt. He was followed by a youngish man with sandy sideburns (he answered Sally’s description of her seducer, too), who was carrying a clipboard. A couple, about my age, smilingly edged in beside me. The woman, in an elegant tweed skirt and cotton blouse, eased herself onto the bureau against which I was leaning, then gave me the nod to follow her example, indicating it would be easier on the feet. I then noticed that other people were casually making themselves comfortable on auctionables. So I did. My friend had a list in her hand and now turned to show it to her husband. I was, in view of my fairly jaundiced experience with Irish married folk, rather astonished at the overt affection in the look he gave her, and the sweetness of his smile as he bent his head to review her list. Then the bidding began.

  I might not have noticed the couple had I not been beside them, but I could only be forcibly struck by his courtesy and her deference. He did the actual bidding; she anxiously followed the rise of price and, with an almost imperceptible shake of her head, indicated when the cost had gone too high on the chest she had wanted. His moue of regret for her disappointment was humorous and good-natured. I couldn’t help but contrast them with Teddie and myself in a similar situation. He’d have bid until he got the item, no matter how outrageous the final sum, and would have been furious with me had I suggested an overbid.

  I did fancy a little velvet-covered Victorian dining chair. But it reached £11 before I could even raise my hand. And sold for £15.

  “That’s overpriced,” said the man beside me to his wife.

  “Dreadfully. Why, we got our four for twenty pounds, didn’t we?”

  He nodded and caught my eye as he did so, giving me such a pleasant smile that I had the nerve to ask them why a chair would bring such a price.

  “Sometimes the owner’s here pushing the bid up,” he said in a low voice. “Sometimes it’s dealers who see a chance to finish a set, or maybe it simply strikes some party’s fancy. Is this your first auction?”

  I nodded, and was s
uddenly conscious that the man just beyond the couple was leaning in as if to catch the conversation. I’d remarked to myself on his utter boredom with the auction proceedings, his silence through all the bidding, which now made his sudden attention to our conversation the more obvious. The moment he saw me looking at him, he straightened up and looked away. I had the feeling that I’d seen the fellow before, although I couldn’t place the circumstance.

  Then the auctioneer called loudly for silence and a bid of £5 on the next item. Once again I became intent on the proceedings. The nosy character had eased away, so I thought no more about him.

  Suddenly the auctionables had all had their chance, and people began to file out the front door.

  “Better luck next week,” the friendly woman said to me as she and her husband moved off.

  I half wished that I could have become acquainted, but I didn’t want to be considered pushy. Maybe they’d be here next week, too. Still, they had worked their magic on me and given me some perspective. I really had tumbled into an exceptional scene with Ann, Sally, and Mary. Then there was the fact that my great-aunt had been a confirmed-by-choice spinster. She would hardly have attracted the happily-marrieds as company. Certainly she’d performed a much-needed service in succoring girls in real distress, who’d been done by rascals. And, I reminded myself as I unlocked the Mercedes, I wasn’t exactly the most unprejudiced observer on that count.

  Besides which, there was George, dying to marry Mary; Kieron, gone on Ann, despite her not admitting it; and give Sally a chance and she’d probably fall in love with someone a good bit more reliable than the wayward Shamus Kerrigan—her Shamus, not mine. (Mine!)

  I nearly braked at the subconscious use of the pronoun. Shay Kerrigan was not mine, nor was I his, nor did I… or did I? His kissing … had been so satisfactory, his presence so reassuring. His—great heavens above, Irene Teasey! You only met him two weeks ago, he’s under a cloud, he’s after something, and you’re …

  I turned off the main road up my lane and glanced into my rear-view mirror as I slowed. The car behind me was driven by Nosy! Well! That was a coincidence. Or was it? Was he following me? Ridiculous notion! Supported by the evidence that, as I turned up Swann’s Lane, his car continued on.